


Like Father, Like Son

by pimpernels



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5150585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpernels/pseuds/pimpernels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The jacket has hung in Neville's closet for as long as he can remember--longer, even. It was his dad's, once upon a time. He's never worn it before--never felt like he had the right--but it's his first real day as an Auror, and he thinks maybe, maybe today he can put it on. He's an Auror now, after all, like his parents were before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Father, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rushie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushie/gifts).



> When you get a message from Basia saying "OH GOD I JUST HAD AN ANGSTY THOUGHT," you'll have to ask her what it is. And once she tells you what it is, you'll have to write a fic to go with it.
> 
> Or, to go with direct quotations here: 
> 
> Basia: So Frank was an Auror, right? So what if he had like. A jacket that he always wore while he was out of patrol. And they didn't get rid of it after he and Alice were locked in St. Mungo's. Or, rather, Neville wouldn't let anyone get rid of it. He hid it. And he intended to wear it one day but never felt worthy of it. But then it's after the Battle of Hogwarts. And he's going to the Ministry for his first day as an Auror. And he puts the jacket on.
> 
> Me: I'M GONNA CRY
> 
> (Or, in this case, write a 1500 word fic to make you guys cry with me.)

The jacket slipped through his history quietly, constantly, like an old friend. He never wore it--he never felt like he had the right--but on special occasions, he could persuade his grandmother to tell him why he still had it--how he had clung to it as a baby, refused to let it go, holding it tighter than any child's security blanket. How she had finally sighed and let him hang onto it for weeks until he loosened his grasp enough for her to put it away. 

She hung it in his closet. It stayed there for nearly two decades, sitting quietly beside clothes that slowly grew in size to match the growing boy. He could never quite forget it, not really. He gave its shoulder an affectionate rub whenever he unpacked his trunk for the summer and Christmas holidays, and then a small, sad smile whenever he was packing everything up again. He tried not to cry over it, but sometimes, when he was home and pasting the latest Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper to the inside of the closet--sometimes he would slip it off the hanger and hug it tight to his chest, letting his sadness wash over him for a minute, maybe two, before he hung it up again, dried his eyes, and went to make tea for his grandmother. 

Then the War happened, and everything shifted. He didn't go home that Christmas. He barely even made it to the summer holidays, let alone to his grandmother's house and the closet plastered with chewing gum wrappers from a mother who couldn't even say his name.

But he fought, and they won. He survived. He came home. His grandmother came with him, surprising him with this new, quiet pride. She had seen what he did. She had seen him fight, and win, and survive--she had seen him bloodied, bruised, but with his spirit unbroken. She had seen him pull the sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat, slice the head from Voldemort's snake, rally the troops despite Harry being dead.

Well, presumed dead, anyway.

He didn't go back to Hogwarts to finish his seventh year. He couldn't--not after the last year, not after all that happened to him, to his friends, to the first years too scared to even go to class on their own. Instead, he moved to London. He rented a flat near the Leaky Cauldron: a small studio, with just enough space for his bed, a few of his favorite plants, the small closet slowly being covered in Drooble's Best. He liked it here in the city, liked the proximity to the wizarding world he knew and the Muggle world that seemed so unbelievably calm and ordinary after the last few years. He joined the Auror program. Like his father, he told himself. Like his mom. 

He wished so desperately that they could be proud of him. 

He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out another Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper. They didn't even know who he was, not really. They would never know how hard his first years at Hogwarts had been, how grateful he had been for Professor Sprout and her kindness, how overwhelming that end of first year feast had been when his ten points--his points!--had pushed Gryffindor over the edge and won them the house cup. They wouldn't know how miserable he had been when his list of passwords had let Sirius Black into Gryffindor Tower, or how relieved and grateful he was when Ginny agreed to go to the Yule Ball with him, or how Luna's quiet quirkiness had calmed him after they became friends, or how relieving it was to hear from McGonagall that his grandmother hadn't been perfect, that she emphasized Transfiguration over Charms because she had failed to do well in the latter. 

They wouldn't know how his heart had quivered as he took a stand at the Battle of Hogwarts, how he had been so overcome with grief and anger that throwing off a silencing charm seemed almost easy in retrospect--how his one thought had been to finish what Harry had asked, to do what he could to make sure his friend had not died in vain. They wouldn't know he had been accepted with open arms into Auror training, wouldn't know how quickly he had adapted to the challenges of the program, wouldn't know how confused he was about what he wanted to do, whether he even wanted to be an Auror. 

They wouldn't know how lonely it could be, not knowing your parents but knowing they were still around.

A chime from the clock on the wall broke his reverie. He glanced at his watch. If he didn't get moving, he'd be late for his first full day as an Auror. He grabbed his wand off the dresser and shoved it in his pocket, deliberately ignoring his memories of his mentors telling him not to do that, to do anything but that. Almost ready to go.

He glanced out the window. The leaves were starting to fall, and the clouds promised a taste of rain if he decided to walk to the Ministry today. He hesitated, then walked over to his closet and for the first time, took out the old coat from its gum wrappered walls. He laid the it out on his bed. It was old now, the green khaki a bit softer around the edges than it had been the last time he gave it a good look. He ran a finger along its frame, still hesitating, then slipped it on over the navy jumper Mrs. Weasley had knit him last Christmas. 

It fit like a glove.

He tugged at the lapels, more to disrupt the odd thrill running through him than because they needed adjusting. He buttoned the front and walked over to the mirror. 

"Dashing," drawled the mirror. He huffed a laugh.

Neville walked back over to the dresser, sticking his hands into the pockets. Something crunched under his right fist. He frowned and pulled it out, revealing an old, worn piece of parchment paper with faded ink carefully folded into a now somewhat crumpled small square that looked as though it had been sitting in the pocket for a very long while.

He unfolded it.  _Dear Mum,_  he read, and sat down suddenly on the bed behind him,  _If you're reading this, something's happened._

_Something's happened, and I'm not there--we aren't there--to tell you what it was. I can't say much, just that Dumbledore's worried enough to ask us to be more careful than usual. He's got the Potters in hiding--I don't know where, just that they've disappeared and only Sirius knows where they are. We're not even sure why, but if Dumbledore's worried, that's enough for me and Alice._

_I hope you don't ever have to read this letter, but if you do I want you to know a few things. First, that I love you, and Alice does too. You have been such--I just love you a lot, Mum, and I always will._

_Second, take care of Neville. We love him. We love him so much, Mum, and the only reason I can even think about leaving this world without him is trusting that you will take care of him the same way you took care of me when I was growing up. Merlin's beard, we love him so much. I know you do, too. Just help him be his own person, okay? Whatever he does, we love him. Just make sure to get him into Gryffindor. (I'm only joking. We'll be proud of him wherever he ends up.) Help him learn that there is good in the world, and that we didn't leave him because we wanted to. But there are some things in this world that are worth dying for, worth fighting for: things like love and justice and kindness and friendship and the future. One day he'll understand that._

_And if we aren't there to show him, I hope he knows that the only reason we aren't is because we believed that. We believed in goodness, and friendship, and love, and family, and loyalty and trust and light and joy and kindness and bravery. We believe we are fighting for the right thing, that we're fighting to give him a future that has all of these things instead of one full of fear and malice and sadness and hatred. We're fighting because we love him. Because we want to be the sort of parents he'd be proud of, because we're already proud of him._

_(Did you know he shot sparks out of Alice's wand this week? Nearly set the kitchen on fire. We started crying from laughing so hard--all I could think about was that time I set your vulture hat (still my favorite, by the way) on fire by doing the same thing when I was five and you ran around chasing me for a solid half hour.)_

_I have to run. There's another Order meeting tonight, and Alice and I are both supposed to be on patrol._

_Love,  
_ _Frank_


End file.
